She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence’s hand that stopped her.
"—But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell him I wish it never had been."
"May I say," said Florence, "that you grieved to hear of the afflictions he has suffered?"
"Not," she replied, "if they have taught him that his daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have brought that lesson, Florence."
"You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!" said Florence. "Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some future time, to say so?"
Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing stedfastly before her, and did not reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night outside:
"Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in common between us now, that there never was before."
Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.
"I trust myself to that," she said, "for his better thoughts of me, and mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least. When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At that time, I will be repentant too—let him know it then—and think that when I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I was, I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!"
"Oh Mama!" said Florence. "How it lightens my heart, even in such a strange meeting and parting, to hear this!"
"Strange words in my own ears," said Edith, "and foreign to the sound of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me—that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send him! Now, good bye, my life!"
She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman’s soul of love and tenderness at once.
"This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!"
"To meet again!" cried Florence.
"Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and that I loved you!"
And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her embraces and caresses to the last.
